


Cop

by belana



Series: New Order [4]
Category: Crows Zero (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belana/pseuds/belana
Summary: Not all anonymous messages are equally good for your health.It takes place several years after Lawyer.Prequel to New Order.





	Cop

**Author's Note:**

Serizawa likes his job.

He likes unhurried walks through Suminoe, his new uniform, his superiors, who don't frown at an untucked shirt and don't check if the buttons are shiny enough. He likes his gun, smelling of gun grease and metal, and squeaking leather holster. He likes patrolling the neighbourhood, it's much, much larger than Suzuran, but he thinks it's his land. He likes to clip shoplifting youngsters around the ear. Everyone profits: boys escape with only reddened ears, shop assistants don't have to return the lost money from their own pockets, and Serizawa gets small tokens of gratitude.

The only thing Serizawa doesn't like is foreign tourists: their strange language, confusing gestures and eyes of a lost basset hound. Gaijins rarely enter the port area, though, mostly when they are lost — apart from Russians, hauling away stolen goods and cars. They are a too big fish for Serizawa, though.

He turns the shift over, enters the locker room and opens his locker, covered in Sapporo labels and pictures of big-breasted goddesses on the inside. He's about to take his towel and shower when his phone rings shrilly.

"Serizawa-junsa?"

"Yes?"

It's too noisy on the other end of the line like someone is calling from a club or a telephone booth that miraculously survived in the never-sleeping slums.

"A crime will soon happen in the Uni motel. You'd better be there."

"Who am I talking to?"

"Uni motel, hurry up."

Serizawa slams the locker shut and adjusts the holster. It's a good thing he didn't return the gun yet. I'd better deal with it quickly and grab something to eat.

Despite its name the motel is situated not in the port area, but close to the subway. It's a hundred meters away from the subway terminus of the blue line, it's a three-storey building, tucked away between ramshackle houses. It's covered with flashing neon sighs 'Rooms for rent' and '24h'.

This motel has a reputation. Cops visit the place once a week or more: sometimes a hooker is dissatisfied with payment, school kids get stoned — nothing special.

Serizawa doesn't believe he's on a crime scene — everything is too ordinary, too normal. _It must be a teenagers' prank again,_ he thinks _. I should fine them for a false alarm, but I don't feel like it._

A copper bell clangs overhead. The receptionist jumps up like a startled rat, dropping the receiver. He stares at Serizawa, Serizawa stares back under a dim light of a ceiling lamp, connected to a fan.

The receptionist is a thin and brittle man of over fifty, he looks like a drug addict in recovery. Serizawa doubts that he was the caller: there is no source of noise in sight. And where could a receptionist get a policeman's personal number, anyway?

"You're already here!" He points a crooked finger at Serizawa. "I didn't even get through to the station!"

"No need for that," Serizawa replies good-naturedly. He doesn't know why he says such things, but he feels it's the right thing to do. "What happened?"

"Upstairs." The receptionist points at the ceiling. "Room 216. They're fighting, but who's going to pay for furniture?"

"We'll sort it out," Serizawa promises.

_And I could be already eating ramen,_ he thinks. _And drinking beer_.

 

* * *

 

The corridor is completely dark: dusty lamps on the walls are no help. Serizawa squints, looking at numbers, written on yellowish paper, tucked into plastic pockets on the walls. Room 216 is situated in the corner of the building.

Serizawa puts a hand on his holster, clicks it open and releases the safety lock on the gun — just in case. Then he knocks on the door.

"This is the police! Open up."

It's too quiet inside: no one answers, even the floor boards aren't squeaking. But as soon as he reaches for the door knob it turns.

"Takiya?"

His hand slips off the holster.

Gloomy Genji looks Serizawa up and down: from dusty shoes to hair, unwashed for four days, — and he feels even shorter than usual. The stare of the violent GPS leader is so heavy Serizawa thinks that he is about to fall through the rotten flooring.

"Let me in," he pushes Takiya inside with his shoulder. He unexpectedly gives in and steps away, crossing his hands over his chest. Takiya is wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves instead of t-shirts that Serizawa used to see him wearing in school. The jacket is lying on the bed, covered with a vulgar glossy scarlet bedspread.

"Show yourself, you bastard," Genji says without turning. His low voice echoes through the room like a temple bell.

Serizawa looks around: there is a huge bed, two bedside tables, a dresser and a door to the bathroom. The only source of light is the street lights, poking through the drawn blinds.

A shadow in the corner straightens awkwardly.

"Kawanishi-san?!"

He has a haunted look about him, like he's running from Housen again and stumbles into the Suzuran backyard, where Serizawa and the boys are grilling sausages. He's dressed in a blue jumpsuit and high boots of a fisherman. He has a round face of a man who eats well, three-days' stubble, and he's covered bruises.

"You think he's going to arrest you, don't you?" Takiya sneaks in on Kawanishi gently like a predator — he shrinks. "Oh no, you're going to get away so easily, bastard."

"What's going on here?" Serizawa steps forward.

"Stay put." There's a gun in Genji's hand. The mad psycho is holding it so casually as if it were his favourite lighter. Serizawa's stomach sinks. He has a very bad feeling about it.

_Scratch feeling,_ Serizawa thinks. _Shit is completely fucked up_.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing he hasn't done. Am I right, Kawanishi? Tell your _kohai_ how you decided to shoot my father so the Yazaki clan could cover your ass in front of Housen."

Serizawa's palms are sweaty, he's glad he isn't holding his gun. It's embarrassing for a cop to accidentally drop it.

He doesn't ask if Genji is right, the answer is written all over sempai's face in kana, like the first exercise of a studious first-year.

"Takiya." Despite everything Serizawa is as calm and persuasive as a preacher. The first person he wants to persuade is himself. "Don't do anything you'll later regret. Authority isn't worth it."

He knows that the head of Ryuseikai ended up in jail this spring, and his son is trying to rule the clan, but yakuza scatter from the young master like cockroaches from a bug spray.

"Authority?" Genji turns around. His fierce eyes are black like those of a beetle. "Fuck authority, Serizawa. This bastard shot my father, don't you get it?"

Serizawa is drowning in this hatred, choking on it, like it's fuel oil, spread over the bay. He can't breathe or surface.

"I won't kill you." Takiya turns away. Serizawa feels ashamed of relief that fills him. "You shot four times."

He raises the gun and pulls the trigger: one, two, three, four. Serizawa hears someone shriek thinly.

"And hit him once."

Kawanishi shrinks, trying to become a shadow between the window and the bedside table again, but it doesn't work. A flash blinds Serizawa for a moment, when he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is a dark stain, spreading over the jumpsuit.

"You can take him to the hospital." Takiya tucks the gun under his belt. "If you'll hurry he'll survive. The score is settled."

Serizawa's mouth has gone dry, he can barely speak.

"What if he dies?"

Genji grabs his jacket and puts it over his shoulders.

"Then he can send my regards to Yazaki."

The door slams shut, heavy footsteps are steadily moving away. Or maybe it's blood, hitting his palms like water from a broken shower when Serizawa is pressing his hands to a wound on sempai's belly.

 

* * *

 

"Serizawa-junsa?"

It's dawning outside, overcooked ramen is rippling like yellowish seaweed.

"That's me."

He puts down a bottle of warm beer.

"Kawanishi is in the hospital."

It's not a question, but Serizawa still replies, "Yes."

"And doctors don't know who shot him and where."

"Yes."

"The receptionist in the motel didn't hear anything and didn't call anyone."

"Yes."

Serizawa watches a half of a boiled egg float in the bowl.

"What happens to a cop, who hushes up a crime, I wonder? Nothing good, I suppose."

The egg looks like a car tire, dumped into a river for laughs. It floats, but doesn't sink. The egg tastes just as rubbery.

"Who am I talking to?"

"Still don't recognize me, do you? Oh well, we should have talked more at school. It's ok. I'll call you, Serizawa. _Bon appetit_."

Ramen ripples like cut-off blond locks, and it is completely uneatable.


End file.
